


and whatever is done by only me is your doing, my darling

by bottleredhead



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon Era, Grantaire is a boxer, M/M, Mythology References, Prompt Fill, Revolutionaries In Love, Sorry Not Sorry, That's just an excuse to have him shirtless, but it's plotty, semi character study, so much angst oh my god
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-22
Updated: 2013-05-21
Packaged: 2017-12-12 14:19:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/812534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bottleredhead/pseuds/bottleredhead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Grantaire is anyone, then he’s Icarus. He’s flown too close to the sun, ignoring Daedalus’ warning to give the burning star a wide berth. He’s a devotee, worshiping at the altar of Dionysus and Apollo alternatively, unable to manage even that without failing: his vice has become the bottle and his love for Apollo is anything but the purity the golden deity should be given.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and whatever is done by only me is your doing, my darling

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: "I really want some e/R angst. Unrequited e/R specifically. 
> 
> I would like to see Enjolras asking Grantaire for advice on how to tell one of the other Les Amis (preference for Courfeyrac or Combeferre) that he is in love with him. And Grantaire, loving Enjolras and not wanting him to be unhappy, even if that happiness is with someone else, helps him with his relationship. 
> 
> Bonus if Grantaire sees the outcome of Enjolras telling the person, and there's more Grantaire angst."
> 
> Link to original prompt and fill: http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/13289.html?thread=8335081#t8335081

There isn’t much that Grantaire would put over the bottle, these days. He drinks to forget, to remember what he must forget, to dull the pain of unrequited love and to breathe a little easier.

The things he would never let alcohol taint are few, but he guards them like his life depends on them; it probably does.

The first is, of course, Enjolras. He might love the man, he might hate what he feels for the man, and he might be only able to speak to him while drunk, but Grantaire values nothing more than his precious Enjolras. You see, Enjolras is all that is pure and good and beautiful about this world. He is the embodiment of perfection; with golden ideals to match the halo he calls his hair.

He is Apollo, descended from Mount Olympus, fiery and powerful and ablaze. He is not Achilles, or Euryalus, or Socrates, because Grantaire is not Patroclus or Nisus or Alcibiades. Or if Enjolras is those men, then his counterpart is not, never, shan’t be Grantaire. Enjolras’ name is never joined with Grantaire’s, there can never be an ampersand to link them to eternity.

If Grantaire is anyone, then he’s Icarus. He’s flown too close to the sun, ignoring Daedalus’ warning to give the burning star a wide berth. He’s a devotee, worshiping at the altar of Dionysus and Apollo alternatively, unable to manage even that without failing: his vice has become the bottle and his love for Apollo is anything but the purity the golden deity should be given.

The other things Grantaire does not drown in a bottle are his art and his sport. His art because only darkness flows from his brush when he has imbibed in too much wine; his sport because each spark of pain as he exerts himself and each drop of sweat that rolls down his skin wards off the gaping hole of misery in his chest.

Even now, as he delivers blow after blow to the stuffed sack in front of him, he can feel that very hole in him shrinking and shying away from the passion his sport ignites in him. Perhaps that is why he loves Enjolras and art and sport: all three spark a fire in him that not even copious amounts of alcohol can dampen.

When his taped-up hands are red and aching, Grantaire steps away from the sacks to wet his throat with some water. He is breathing hard and heavy, his chest rising and falling rapidly with each straining breath. The perspiration coating his body slicks his curls to his face, giving him the appearance of a sopping wet dog.

All thoughts of gods and drinks are pushed away from his mind when he returns to the sacks, newly taped-up hands flexing underneath their white bindings. With each swing of his arm, and as his fist finds its target, the fire inside him is re-stoked, burning hotter and hotter until he is feverish with its heat. His fists sink into the hard leather over and over, leaving barely-there indentations of his knuckles.

Perhaps that is why he does not notice the lone figure standing in the otherwise empty doorway, the sunlight shining behind him setting his hair aglow and his red jacket on fire. The man makes a terrible and terrifying image to behold.

“Oh!” gasps Grantaire, when he is made aware of the other man’s presence by an insistent but polite throat-clearing. “Enjolras.”

The man steps out from under the doorframe and walks into the large room, shoes-clad footsteps echoing on the worn wooden planks of the floor. Away from the sunlight, Enjolras is no less beautiful but a touch more human. He still looks unapproachable, however.

“Grantaire,” he says, cadmium-blue eyes flicking around to take in the leather sacks, rickety table shoved to one side, jug of water on the table and, finally, Grantaire, shirtless, sweaty and chest heaving. “I have come to ask a favour of you.”

Ink-black eyebrows knitting together, Grantaire gestures for Enjolras to take a seat at the table, joining him after wiping his face with a rag he had discarded next to his change of clothes. “Apollo, come to ask a favour of his lowly devotee? What could once such as myself offer a god, I wonder?”

And there it is, the taunting that seems to come out of nowhere whenever he’s placed in the vicinity of Enjolras without the liquid courage of the Green Fairy rushing through his veins and wetting his parched throat. It is not as though Grantaire means to goad Enjolras in such a manner; the filter between his mind and mouth, usually a little faulty, seems to fall through completely when he’s talking to the object of his affections.

Enjolras grimaces, cupid bow’s lips curling in distaste. “Be serious.”

Grantaire grins. “I am wild.”

When the man continues to frown at him, he sighs and runs his hand through his hair to push the sweat-sticky strands out of his eyes. “Do not tire me with your aversion to banter, Enjolras, I shall behave. Now, what is it that you ask of me?”

The other man looks nervous. It is such a foreign expression on the features of one so usually confident that Grantaire blinks in confusion, taking a moment to place a name to the expression.

“What is it? You can tell me, for I will not judge you.”

Enjolras wets his lips with his tongue, a little flash of pink before it retreats into the cavern of his mouth. “Well, as of late I have been having… feelings.”

Grantaire quirks a brow. “Oh? I take it these are not feelings that further the revolution?”

The flush that spreads over Enjolras’ face is a thing of beauty, creeping up his face to rest high on his cheeks. The spots of colour highlight the utter and encompassing blue of his eyes. “No, they do not. They are strange feelings, very similar to what Marius would expound and preach about when talking of the girl who has caught his fancy.”

“Why, Enjolras, do not tell me that the marble statue is in fact human?” Grantaire smirks.”

“Forget it,” Enjolras mutters, the blush of his cheeks deepening. “I see now that you will not take anything seriously. I’m sorry for wasting your time.”

The artist grabs the leader’s sleeve, barring him from leaving. “I was not ridiculing you, forgive me. This _is_ a little strange, but only because it is me you have come to for advice. Why not Combeferre, is he not your lieutenant? Or perhaps Courfeyrac? He is rather experienced when it comes to such matters of the heart.”

Enjolras retakes his seat. “Courfeyrac would mock me endlessly; besides which, I fear his advice might not be suitable for my situation. And Combeferre…”

It’s a knife wound, the sudden stab in his chest. “Oh.”

“Yes.”

“I do not understand, then,” says Grantaire, and he has to force the words out around the phantom blood he can feel pooling up his trachea. If he wheezes a little, Enjolras does not notice. He does not notice the stricken and pained expression marring his friend’s face.

“I do not know how to, _ah_ , express the way I feel towards him.”

If Grantaire weren’t a little too busy being torn to shreds by his own feelings, then he would laugh at how heartwarming Enjolras’ awkwardness is. As it is, he’s finding breathing a smidge difficult to manage.

It not as if Grantaire has ever imagined Enjolras returning his feelings. No, he has long since resigned himself to pining for he who is destined to lead and fall, because even Rome fell and Rome was great and terrible. Enjolras is great and capable of being terrible.

But now there is proof that Enjolras isn’t the marble statue he’s so fond of comparing him to. Now, there is proof that Enjolras knows of love beyond that of France and pro patria mori and the revolution.

And it hurts. Grantaire’s entire being hurts like he’s been rolled over by the Trojan horse, ribs folding to crush the mangled heart and straining lungs inside. _See, Icarus, you have been warned about the sun and now your wax wings are melting._

“Hence, I was wondering if you would advise me on how to articulate what I feel into words.”

“You are the orator out of the two of us, Enjolras.”

He frowns, eyeing the tape encasing Grantaire’s hands absentmindedly. “Yes, that may be, but I am not well versed in the art of wooing.”

If Grantaire had been sipping something, he’d have surely sputtered and spilled it all over his bare chest by now. Of course Enjolras, blushing virgin that he is (quite literally, too), would call a confession of affection _wooing_.

He imagines burning trails of hot wax sliding down his skin from each shoulder blade, where he’d affixed his makeshift wings. “You know Combeferre better than I do, I’m afraid. Our guide is rational and contained. He will make a good match for your hotheadedness.”

Enjolras smiles at him and hope blossoms in his heart, which he hastens to snuff out. Ah, there is that twist of the knife again. His traitorous heart wants to soar at the sight of that beautiful smile directed towards him yet his mind rages viciously. He’s torn in two directions, a limp ragdoll of a child who has no replacement, frayed and ripping at the seams. And his seams are so, so close to unraveling – he cannot hold all this love inside him, not with the darkness in there already.

He might be in love with Enjolras but at the moment, he dislikes him a great deal.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from the poem by e.e. cummings, i carry your heart with me (i carry it in). If you haven't already, you really should give it a read because it is a wonderful poem.
> 
> Kudos and comments very much welcome!


End file.
